


Near you is where I wish to be

by captainhurricane



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Blowjobs, Body Worship, Connor is a Good Boy, Established Relationship, Hank deserves all the love, Hugs, M/M, platonic lifemates except nothing platonic about this, unbetaed we die like women, well sorta
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-31
Updated: 2019-01-31
Packaged: 2019-10-20 01:21:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17612747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainhurricane/pseuds/captainhurricane
Summary: Connor wants to show his love to his man.





	Near you is where I wish to be

Something, many somethings, buzz around inside Connor’s magnificently big brain, previously machine-made orders turned into thoughts, feelings, desires. 

 

I want, he learns to say.

I need, he learns to say. 

I think, therefore I am, he says in response to Markus who smiles in return. It’s Markus who teaches him philosophy and how to organize all the odd electric impulses that turned him from machine to deviant. It’s North who teaches him her street-fighting, her anger and most surprisingly, jokes. It’s Simon who teaches him how to care better, care more and most importantly, teaches him how to hug. 

 

It’s Hank, of course it is, who teaches him how to love in his own gruff way. Connor discovers his own way of loving: his kisses sloppy when Hank’s are soft, Connor discovers the wonders of praise and the way Hank crumbles in front of it, hiding away his discomfort. 

 

Connor files that discomfort away in his folder of All Things Hank, creates himself a new objective: Get Hank to accept his love. 

 

*

 

A crisp winter day is when Connor decides to start getting them even closer. Oh, Connor knows how tightly Hank hugs him, strokes Hank’s hair when the nightmares and memories get especially bad. Hank has kissed his forehead, his cheeks, has held Connor’s hands between his own, warm and calloused and making Connor’s artificial heart pump quicker. 

 

They’ve never quite discussed romance, they haven’t needed to. 

 

But it’s that perfect day for it, when Connor wakes himself from stasis at 4am to start breakfast. Connor has stolen one of Hank’s big sweaters, a pair of his very own underwear and thick woollen socks from Hank’s drawers. Connor doesn’t need to keep himself warm, not really, but he enjoys being surrounded by scent and taste of Hank. 

 

He hums as he begins chopping up vegetables for a little frittata, subtly introducing greenery into Hank’s food. 

 

How should he approach this? He has inquired Markus for advice, has listened to the soft cadence of Markus’ voice telling him that just talk, just be direct. Connor gently teases him back about taking his own voice, for which Markus merely laughs. 

 

But Markus is just one person. 

 

Markus doesn’t know Hank like Connor does. Connor doesn’t think anyone knows like he does. It gives him a pleasant surge of warmth inside, like the blue blood keeping him going itself had warmed up, surged quicker inside his artificial veins. 

 

He puts away the vegetables to wait for the first noises of Hank waking and gets to work on cleaning. Connor gives Sumo a few pats, a few rubs and then a few rubs more because Sumo loves him and rolls on his back, letting out a soft boof. Connor gives him a kiss on the nose and fills his bowl, lets him out into the yard for his moment. 

 

Connor cleans and Connor thinks, his LED spinning a restless yellow. How often has he thought of Hank lately? No, ever since the first signs of deviancy appeared in his code, when he had first looked at Hank and thought that this is a human he wishes to protect. Not because he’s programmed to do so, not because his orders are to do his job. But because Hank Anderson is a good man in great pain and Connor has grown to care.

 

It’s all these things that Connor thinks as he waits for Hank to wake. 

 

Connor twirls his precious coin between his fingers, paces behind Hank’s closed bedroom door. The clock ticks closer to 6:30am and as usual, Connor listens for the trill of Hank’s alarm. Connor continues to make breakfast, makes coffee, browses through various praises in his head, unable to decide which one to use. He knows something about cliché, doesn’t quite understand what cheesy means, has heard Hank grumbling about him being sappy before. Should Connor compliment his hair? His eyes? His big, warm hands that Connor often falls into peaceful stasis holding? That big warm belly Hank so often hides from him? 

 

All of them are so good. All of them make Hank, well. Hank. Objectively Connor knows himself to be beautiful, specifically made to be so but Hank’s beauty isn’t machine-perfect, created from his parents and molded by the life that he has led. All the numerous differences between Connor and Hank are what makes Hank so interesting, all the curious details of Hank’s personality make Connor love him more. 

 

“Good morning, Hank,” Connor chirps when Hank finally shuffles into the kitchen, with glorious bed hair and a faded band shirt. 

“Grumrbgkhf,” Hank grumbles and reaches grabby hands. Connor places his coffee mug between them, gently folds Hank’s calloused fingers around it. Hank’s face twitches before he gulps down half of it. “Good,” he says. 

Connor bites his lip, comes close. “Your bedhead is cute,” he murmurs. He reaches to ruffle it, lets his fingers linger in the soft, messy silver.

Hank shoots him a look. “Cute wouldn’t be the thing I would call the swamp monster in the mirror,” Hank huffs. But his arm sneaks around Connor and pulls him close. 

“The swamp monster I love,” Connor answers back, after a moment of hesitation - and a quick search through his data banks for references of monsters in swamps. Connor’s cheeks are warm, must be tinted blue because Hank chuckles. Outside of his home, he never does so: it’s a sarcastic snort, the loud guffaw of a man so used to privacy and keeping things to himself that he doesn’t know how to be anything else. 

“Love, huh?” Hank puts down the coffee after gulping it down and cups Connor’s face. “You’ve gone and fallen for a grumpy old dick like me?” 

Connor grabs Hank’s wrists and squeezes them gently. “My - my internal temperature raises every time I am close to you. My thi - no, my heart, my heart skips a beat, it seems to when you’re - “ Connor’s eyes widen, his voice trailing off because Hank’s eyes look suspiciously damp. 

“I would tell you that you deserve someone better and not an alcoholic depressed mess like me but - I’m really fucking happy to hear you say that, Con,” Hank murmurs and pulls Connor into a hug. 

Connor gladly returns it and nuzzles Hank’s jaw, mouth twitching into a smile because as usual, Hank’s beard is all messy and tickles Connor’s sensitive skin. Connor sniffs, pushes his nose against Hank’s earlobe. “You smell good. Everything about you is amazing, Hank.” 

Hank squeezes him tighter. The tip of his ear is pink. “Okay, enough with the sappy shit, kiddo.” But he still doesn’t let go. He presses a kiss to Connor’s hair, lips brushing tantalizingly close to the gentle blue of Connor’s LED. 

 

Hank’s arms are thick and warm. Connor is not a small man by any feature, made to be tall and pretty and broad shouldered as he is - but Hank? Hank is broader, Hank is bigger. Hank is warmer and harder and, well, softer too. Softer in the places that intrigue Connor, softer during nights when he sleeps and Connor stays awake to watch him, to protect him from whatever nightmare Hank’s mind conjures up. 

 

Connor’s own skin is deceitfully soft, a facade over his hard white chassis. There is no such thing with Hank: Hank’s skin is his skin, Hank’s mind is his own mind. Hank is beautiful and doesn’t believe himself to be so. 

 

So Connor withdraws from the embrace only to kiss him: that strong nose, the closed eyelids, the smiling mouth. 

“Sap,” Hank murmurs, but already the grumpiness of the morning is fading. 

“You taught me the most,” Connor says back and lets him go back to his breakfast. Connor lingers close and watches. “And I want you to see what I see.” He fiddles with his fingers. 

 

Hank chomps down his breakfast and huffs. 

 

*

 

Connor intends to make good on those words.

 

So when they get home from work, actually on time for once, Connor pushes Hank into the shower and retreats himself into their bedroom. Connor usually keeps the house neat and tidy, but still makes sure to fluff up the pillows and set aside the blankets. He strips down, folds his clothes, leaves himself bare from head to toe and tries to tuck away that ever present curl that refuses to stay still. Connor paces, goes through a couple of scenarios before he shuts off the program entirely. Humans do this all the time. Humans make lasting relationships, humans ask for sex and give and receive touches all the time. Besides, Hank loves him and Connor loves Hank. 

 

Connor slides his hands down his skin, to his groin where only smooth skin resides. He didn’t even think to ask if he could get genitals. But this is not about Connor, this is about Hank. 

 

So Connor saunters to him when Hank gets out of the shower, waist wrapped in one of his faded black towels. Hank gets an armful of a naked android and an eager, clumsy kiss.

“H-hey hey, hey now, what’s this about?” Hank does keep his arms around Connor’s waist, does smile as softly as he does. 

“I would like for you to lay down on the bed,” Connor says and licks his lips, an unconscious gesture picked up from who knows what. Connor ramps up the sensitivity of his skin by 20%, smiles when he can’t help but shiver when Hank rubs his cheek. 

 

“You have some devious plan in that big brain of yours, tin boy,” Hank huffs but he gives a kiss to Connor’s nose, lets his lips linger, lets himself sigh. Like finally letting out tension that he’s been holding onto for so long.

“I am not made of tin,” Connor says before catching up onto it being just one of Hank’s pet names. Connor gives him a little shove, nudges him towards the bed, yanks off the towel before Hank can even think to protest. 

 

Hank huffs, as if he was offended by the manhandling. He lays on the bed on his back and tosses his arm over his eyes. “Manhandling an old man like me, so fucking rude, you brat,” he grumbles but pulls Connor close to himself, for a sweet, lingering kiss.

“Every part of you is so good,” Connor murmurs. He takes Hank’s hands between his and kisses the bony knuckles, kisses the calloused fingertips, licks the warm skin. Connor moans, brain immediately filling up with the knowledge just how intense Hank tastes: the faint marker of the shower soap he uses, everything that makes Hank’s taste so uniquely Hank. 

“Baby,” Hank whispers and squeezes Connor’s hands. “Connor, I’m not - I’m not sure about this - “ 

Connor presses a kiss to Hank’s chest, to the soft curve of his stomach. He looks up at Hank and lets Hank’s hands go. Connor is trembling, the increased sensitivity working wonders. Hank reaches for him and kisses him, they both jolt when Connor’s skin retreats where Hank touches him to reveal the smooth white underneath. Connor lowers his eyes and bites his lip. 

“I can - “ he presses a warm palm to Hank’s stomach and rubs. “I researched,” he murmurs. “Physical touches are a way to show love. I researched. I know this.” 

Hank pulls him for a kiss, then another, then another, calls him a sweetheart and tells him that if Hank gets to relax, so does Connor. 

 

When Connor retreats lower again, Hank’s hands are on his head, carding through startlingly realistic hair, sneaking to Connor’s neck to find that crafty little neck port. Hank knows to not delve in too deep and he’s too careful in the way he pokes around with one perfect thick finger. Connor’s wires are tiny there and glow a gentle blue. 

 

Connor licks over Hank’s navel and rubs Hank’s skin, marvels at the old scars, the curve of his belly. “Beautiful,” Connor murmurs. “My beautiful Hank.” 

 

Hank grumbles but doesn’t outright deny it anymore. He gently tugs on those fragile neck wires, gently rubs them, just enough for Connor to react with a soft little moan. Connor leaves a string of kisses on Hank’s belly, leaves a lot of lingering warm touches, like hoping to leave his handprint there, forever. He keeps his hands there when he descends down for Hank’s cock. 

 

Hank gets to sit up for this and he does it so gratefully, because this way he can reach Connor better, this way he can watch the way Connor struggles to fit all of him into his mouth. 

“They made you so pretty,” Hank murmurs, half-drunk and flushed on the love he’s gotten. “And you’re all mine. Are you?” The uncertainty lingers, will linger for the rest of Hank’s life but for now it doesn’t matter. Because Connor looks up, eyes big and sublime and whispers a reverent yes. 

**Author's Note:**

> yell with me about hankcon on twitter @ allodole


End file.
